


Ashes to Ashes

by Ryne



Series: The Great Purge [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryne/pseuds/Ryne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles and short stories set in the Purge era. All of these take place in the same canon verse as <em>Bury Me Whole</em> -- some are prequels, some are little outtakes. Requests are welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Young Pendragon

**Title:**  The Young Pendragon  
 **Characters/Pairings:**  Arthur, Gaius, Uther  
 **Rating/Warnings:**  K  
 **Universe:**  Canon  
 **Word Count:**  368  
 **Summary:**  A response to the fourth challenge.

* * *

Gaius held the little prince tightly as he left the queen’s chamber, and Uther was on him in a second. “Well?” he asked eagerly, bounding forward from where he had been pacing a hole in the rug. Gaius looked at him mutely for a moment, taking in his shining face, and felt his heart shatter all over again, because despite all his battles Uther was still so young and so innocent, and Gaius knew that it wouldn’t last.

“Congratulations, my friend,” he said finally. “Your son and heir. The queen has named him Arthur.”

“Arthur,” Uther breathed, and held his arms out for his son. Gaius gently handed the little prince over. Uther held him as if he was made of glass, and looked at him as if he was the most precious thing in the world. “Arthur,” he said again, sounding choked, and when he looked up at Gaius his eyes were shining. “My son.  _Our_  son. After all our struggles... Where is Ygraine? May I see her now?”

Gaius faltered. “Sire,” he began, but couldn’t find the words. Uther was looking at him expectantly, though, so he forced himself to go on as gently as possible. “Sire... the queen... the queen is dead.”

“...I’m sorry?” Uther said after a moment, and chuckled nervously when Gaius didn’t amend himself. He looked at him uncertainly. “I’m sorry, I...”

“We tried everything, sire,” Gaius said weakly, and horror began to dawn on Uther’s face. “But... the bleeding wouldn’t stop. I tried herbs, potions... Nimueh and Alice performed every spell possible, but... but there was no stopping it. We couldn’t determine — and she just kept — we couldn’t—”

Uther let out such a ghastly cry of loss that Gaius’ very breath was stolen from him. He staggered slightly, and Gaius started forward, fearing that Uther would lose all sense and drop his precious son, but the king caught himself, and all Gaius could do was stand beside him awkwardly. “I’m... I’m sorry, sire,” he offered quietly as he moved to put his hand on Uther’s shoulder.

Uther twitched out of reach. “Leave me,” he said numbly, turning away. “Go. Just — just go.”

And Gaius, not knowing what else to do, went.


	2. The Chains That Bind Us

The order had been delivered to the forge at lunchtime, and Tom had agonized over it all day. Now he stood before his wife, watching her as she deciphered the ornate script, and tried to gauge her reaction.   
  
“The money’s good,” she said finally, handing it back to him. Her expression was guarded.  
  
“It is,” Tom agreed, wringing his hands, and then everything came pouring out. “Elyan’s growing fast, and with another one on the way... We could use that money. From the king himself, too! If I got his favor, we’d be... “ He trailed off, and then gestured agitatedly. “But look at what he’s  _asking_  for! Shackles and chains, Maria... Those could only be for one purpose, and I don’t know that I want to be a part of it.” His hands tightened and the paper crinkled. “Damn the magic ban,” he said hoarsely, “they’re our  _neighbors_.”  
  
The words hung in the air, hushed and treasonous, and Maria glanced at the window before saying, “What will we do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he said honestly, dropping into the chair beside her and putting his head in his hands.   
  
“Don’t do it.”  
  
“I  _have_  to, Maria. If I don’t then there’ll be questions as to why, and after the Felder girl last week you know that a question’s as good as a conviction these days.”  
  
“We could run. We can leave this insanity far behind us, and go back to Longstead.”  
  
Tom laughed hollowly. “Maria, my sweet, I know you’re always ready to go back to your village. But we wouldn’t escape for long. Longstead won’t be a haven, Maria, sorcerers are being rounded up everywhere. It’s not just in Camelot any longer, and if I set up shop in Longstead... soon enough I’d be making  _their_  chains, for your Elsa and Ben and Rose...”  
  
Maria paled, and whispered, “ _No_.”  
  
“I have to do it, Maria,” he said after a long silence. “I have to.” And one day, he thought, he might even be able to convince himself that he had had no choice.


	3. Magic Goes Awry

_“O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!”_  
  
The crowd shuddered as his primal cry washed through their bones; beside him, Uther curled his lip in barely concealed disgust, but gave no other sign of his disapproval. “When will he arrive?” Uther asked almost disinterestedly; Balinor could hardly recall a single moment where the king had shown any reaction.  
  
“Soon,” Balinor said, already feeling the tug of the soul-bond in his mind and heart. And sure enough, it was only moments before they could hear wingbeats above the castle, and whispers rippled through the crowd as the dragon came into sight.  
  
Kilgarrah landed, his golden eyes dimmed with the weight of sorrow, and he bowed as if to his inevitable fate. And Balinor bowed to him in return, in recognition of the unfathomable depths of his mourning, because while he too had felt the shockwaves of the deaths of his brethren — dragons and Dragonlords alike — his losses barely held a candle to the dragon’s, because his life and pain were tiny and fleeting while Kilgarrah’s was infinite, felt in the echoes of the past and the loneliness of the future.  
  
“Balinor,” the dragon rumbled wearily. “Why have you called me to this place?”  
  
Because of Uther’s promise. Because if I did not agree they would hunt us both down. Because it is our last chance to survive.  
  
“For peace,” he answered instead, gesturing to Uther.  
  
“ _Peace!_ ” scoffed the dragon, and Balinor knew that it was only his command that prevented him from leaving. “You think there can be peace between us, after what he has done? After he slaughtered our kind and left the world in such unbalance? Are you so naive, Balinor, even after all you have seen?”  
  
“He  _swore_ —”  
  
Beside him, Uther smiled, sinister and obvious, and Balinor felt sick.  
  
 _What had he done?_  
  
“Kilgarrah! Kilgarrah, go!  _Æthlíep!_ ” he yelled, but it was too late — the guards sprung into action and threw a net of mail over Kilgarrah’s wings to keep him grounded; the knights raised their shields against his fire, shields that were spelled against dragon flame, because above all else Uther was a hypocrite and a traitor, even to his own self. And there was such confusion, such noise, and in the midst of it Kilgarrah roared and struggled but could not fight his way free.  
  
And Uther looked on, triumphant.


	4. Don't You Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "The Dead Waltz" by Radical Face. Title from the same song.

The pounding on her door ripped her from sleep and thrust her into terrified awareness.  _They’re here, they’re here, they’re here,_  her heart stuttered, and she experienced a moment of sheer, mindless terror before she wrenched herself back under control. She couldn’t afford to panic now, not when the stakes were so high, because maybe if she kept a clear head and went quietly, the only life taken tonight would be her own.  
  
“Lena,” she whispered to the bundle of blankets by the fire where her daughter slept. “Lena. Stay there. Stay quiet. And whatever happens,  _don’t. Move._ Just like the games we play, alright?” She forced herself to swallow and smile so that her daughter could not hear the tears in her voice. “There’s my good girl,” she said into the responding silence. “It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay.” And as she opened the door, she didn’t know if she was reassuring Lena or herself.  
  
But on the other side of the door was not a fearful, accusing mob but her neighbor Willam, grim-faced and silent and alone but for the small figure peeking out from behind him.  
  
“ _Lena_ ,” she gasped. “What are you — you _know_ it’s not safe—”  
  
“Found her in the woods,” Willam grunted as Lena scrambled into her arms.  
  
“Thank you.  _Thank you_. I don’t know how—” she said breathlessly, but suddenly Willam was forcing his way past her, pulling the door shut behind him.  
  
“She’s a witch,” he said bluntly, the words falling like stones between them, and again her heart seized with terror.  
  
“No,” she whispered numbly, her mind blanking in panic. “No, she’s — she’s  _not_ , she’s—”  
  
“Saw her going into the woods,” Willam continued, quiet and even. “Followed her in, these being dangerous times and all. Never know what’s lurking out there in the dark. An’ then I saw her, plain as day, playing with these little balls of light.”  
  
“Faeries, Mama,” Lena piped up, too young to know to keep quiet, too young to know the danger she was in, too young, too young, too young to die in the flames that awaited her now that there was a witness.  
  
“Please,” she whispered, clutching Lena close. “Please, she’s not — she didn’t ask for this, none of us did — not her too,  _please_ —”  
  
And still Willam regarded her calmly, even as she crumbled, because she had long resigned herself to her fate but Lena’s gift was so recent, so secret, that she had dared to hope that her daughter would be spared. But now someone had seen, and Lena too was doomed, and she had failed her, failed to protect her, and all she could do was beg.  
  
But then—  
  
“Elia,” Willam said as hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. “Elia, _stop. Think._ I brought her  _here_.” And then his hands were gripping her shoulders, shaking her, making her see. “I brought her home, to tell you to be more careful. I’m not turning her in.”  
  
And as his words sunk in, she felt the iron bands that had formed around her lungs snap, and she could breathe again, she could sob and fold in on herself in relief, because Lena was safe.  
  
“I can do nothing for you,” Willam said softly, voice full of regret. “You’re too — it’s too late for you. But her...” He looked away, looked down, steeled himself. “Uther’s wrong,” he said firmly, the first person, the only person who’d said that to her. “Uther’s wrong, and I can save her. So you don’t — you don’t need to worry, once you’re gone, because... I’ll look out for her. Just. Be careful.”  
  
And then he left, hunched and quiet, before she could find the breath and the words to thank him, and she wept and wept over his kindness. She had seen nothing but ugliness from those around her, ever since Uther had begun his campaign, so much so that she had come to despair the darkness ahead. But now, when they came for her several days later — now, she was not so afraid to die, because she knew that she was not leaving her daughter in a world entirely devoid of light.


	5. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response to the word prompt 'macabre.'

The birds had begun to chirp again as Callum found a log to sit on to wipe the blood from his sword with a strip of a dead man’s cloak, away from the carnage and the smell of Fendrel’s burning corpse, dead because he’d been too slow to duck the spell and still aflame because they hadn’t had time to put him out.  
  
It was nice to sit down. The march had been long and hard, and the battle, once they’d arrived, had been... well, the battle had been short, because the druids had been caught off-guard, but they’d recovered quickly, and they had magic.  
  
 _Not all of them_ , whispered a voice in his head that sounded a lot like his wife.  _Not the children, not—_  
  
But he silenced that voice, just as he’d been doing after every battle.  _You’re dead_ , he told her shortly.  _Dead and burnt, and I’m better for it, away from your corruption._  He often reminded himself of that, whenever he began to miss her, or when her voice rang clear in his head, because if he dwelt too hard on it then he would begin to doubt, and doubt was something he could not afford. Doubt would lead to pity, and pity would lead to death, whether through hesitation on the battlefield or through painful execution, just like her.  
  
They were piling the bodies up now, men and women and children alike, because there was no way to rid them of the corruption of magic except through fire.  _Fire purifies_ , the king had told them.  _Fire purifies, and fire cures_. Callum often wondered if his wife had felt cured, if Fendrel did now too, but he couldn’t ask them anymore, so he had to take the king’s word as truth, because what else could it be, delivered with an earnest smile?  
  
There was no smile on Uther’s face now as he oversaw the pyre, but Callum could see a pleased gleam in his eye nonetheless, and knew that the king had looked around this macabre scene and thought it good.  _He’s mad_ , his wife whispered.  _They’re all mad, and you know it._  Again he silenced her quickly, but then someone laughed as they threw a corpse on the pile, and he couldn’t help it — a shiver passed over him, and despite all his efforts, a seed of doubt was planted.


	6. With A Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Jack sings is an English folk song called The Three Ravens.

There was nothing she liked better than sitting in her doorway in the little chair her son had built her, rocking in the sunshine while she did her mending. It had piled up lately, left in a basket in the corner because she hadn’t felt up to doing it in the past few weeks, although she couldn’t seem to remember why, with the sun warming her face and her son keeping her company.  
  
“Sing me a song, Jack,” she requested as her needle flashed in and out of one of his shirts. His smile flashed bright as a sunbeam, and he tapped out a rhythm against the doorframe where he sat whittling and began to sing, soft and strong and sure. “ _There were three ra’ens sat on a tree, down a down, hey down, hey down..._ ”  
  
She hummed along as she whipped off stitches, watching her son’s long, callused fingers shape the wood held between them as his eyes glowed gold. “You have such a lovely voice, Jack,” she sighed between verses, and he ducked his head and sang, “ _Down in yonder green field, down, a down, hey down, hey down, there lies a knight slain 'neath his shield..._ ”   
  
“Mama?” Her daughter came hurrying up the path, her basket swaying from her arm, full from her trip to the market. “Mama, what are you—”  
  
“Shh, Ana, shh. Your brother’s singing.”  
  
Something in Ana’s expression broke, but she patched it back together and knelt down beside her chair. “Mama,” she said. “Mama, Jack’s dead.”  
  
Thump thump thump went the rocking chair, and Jack sang, “ _His hounds they lie down at his feet, so well they do their master keep, with a down, derry, derry, derry down, down..._ ”  
  
“He’s dead,” Ana repeated when she said nothing, head bowed over the mending. “He’s — they found him, Mama, they found him and burnt him, in the square, do you remember?” And slowly the needle paused mid-stitch as images flashed in her mind — a crowd, a murmuring crowd, and her Jack standing high above them, those long callused hands tied behind him and his eyes wide with terror, green as summer leaves with not a hint of gold because the gold was in the flames, the flames that rose and rose until they wrapped round him like an embrace, and he was screaming and screaming like he hadn’t since he was a babe in arms, hungry for her breast, only there had never been such agony in his voice before, his beautiful voice that sang to her still: “ _She lifted up his bloody head, down a down, hey down, hey down, and kissed his wounds that were so red, with a down..._ ”  
  
The needle moved again as his voice grounded her, stealing her away from that awful nightmare, and she smiled at him. The sun caught the glints of gold in his brown hair and she sighed in contentment, because she had always loved sitting in her doorway in the little chair he’d made her, listening to him sing to her as she mended.  
  
“Do you remember, Mama?” Ana asked again, sounding choked and desperate.  
  
“ _She buried him before the prime, down a down, hey down, hey down. She was dead herself ere e'en-song time, with a down, derry, derry, derry down, down..._ ”  
  
She turned her smile to her daughter, and brushed away the tears in the girl’s eyes. “Shh, my love,” she soothed. “Your brother’s singing.”


	7. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man catches his wife doing something horrible, yet still he understands.

Today, at least, the executions were over quickly — a man and a woman, strangers perhaps, but both truly guilty of performing the Dark magic of which they were accused. A rare thing these days, he mused, but then again, perhaps that’s what led them to it. It was hard to tell nowadays who was evil and who was driven to it, and the distinction became less and less important as time went on. He didn’t know why anyone would choose that path, when it only confirmed the opposition and hastened their execution.  
  
But they and their motivations didn’t matter to him, though they might have in the early days — only one person mattered anymore, and so he hurried home to her, leaving their bodies swaying sadly in the breeze.  
  
He rounded the corner to hear wailing coming from his house, and his heart nearly stopped. Everyone was still in the courtyard, but still he stopped himself from running home, just in case someone was watching, because he couldn’t attract any attention — all the neighbors had been led to believe that she had fled, but the soldiers must have heard somehow — and yet his door, his door was still standing, so surely—  
  
And then he burst through it, calling, “Mara, Mara, are you—” but the sight that met his eyes was not what he expected yet no less horrific, and as the door fell shut behind him he exclaimed, “ _Mara!_ ” For there was his wife, his beloved, magic-doomed wife, holding her arm in the flame of a candle and sobbing as she watched it blister.  
  
“What are you  _doing?!_ ” he demanded, rushing over and snatching her arm away, and then blowing out the candle in case she thought to fight him. But she only sobbed harder, collapsing in his arms, so he held her and rocked her and wished he understood.  
  
“I just wanted to know,” she whispered several minutes later, when the only sounds were his noises of comfort and her ragged breathing. “I just wanted to know.”  
  
And when understanding struck he wished it hadn’t, because he could think of nothing to say. What words of reassurance could he offer, when faced with a confession like that? What had the world come to, when his wife could burn herself to know what others had felt, what she might soon feel, and he could think it sane? “Oh, Mara,” he said instead, feeling inadequate, because all he could offer was sympathy.   
  
And as he held her tighter and wept himself, he thought he understood something else: that those who turned to Dark magic did so not out of evil but out of love. He understood this because he knew that if he had magic, he would do anything,  _anything,_ to make the world safe for her, and if it worked then he would call it good.


End file.
